


holding up all this falling

by scheherazade



Series: Autumn [1]
Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-03
Updated: 2009-03-03
Packaged: 2017-10-14 20:50:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/153333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scheherazade/pseuds/scheherazade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wakes with light dancing on the edge of his vision and, for a moment, thinks that it's the color of a Mallorcan dawn breaking on the waves beyond the sea-facing window.</p>
            </blockquote>





	holding up all this falling

_"If I said...I love you..."_

-

**August 17th, 2008**

He wakes with light dancing on the edge of his vision and, for a moment, thinks that it's the color of a Mallorcan dawn breaking on the waves beyond the sea-facing window. The murmur of water blends with the sound of cotton sheets whispering against each other as he shifts slightly, turning toward the warm presence curled up beside him, one hand reaching automatically to brush against soft, brown locks.

The name that was on his lips dies as his hand comes into contact instead with short, tufted hair.

Roger finally opens his eyes. The light blinding his vision is a Beijing morning splintering through the window of the hotel room, and the sound of ocean waves resolves itself into the faint hum of the air conditioner. Beside him, Stan sighs in his sleep.

Heart racing, Roger remembers last evening, remembers the weight of the gold medal around his neck, Stan's arms around him, Stan's lips pressed to his own in a shy kiss that quickly became more than just that.

Suddenly, whether out of desperation or affection or something else altogether, he leans closer and kisses Stan again―and it feels more and more like desperation with every passing moment, as his mind clears and he remembers that the world ended a few months ago.

Now he's here, with Stan, kissing Stan, and Stan is waking slowly, murmuring something unintelligible against Roger's lips. He sighs, blinks once, twice as he opens his eyes, then smiles a smile that makes Roger's pulse stutter.

And it's like the earth is falling away beneath his feet, all over again. But still, no one is there to catch him.

Stan would try―God knows, Stan would, but he's the wrong person, the wrong time. Roger doesn't know if there ever was a right person, a right time. If there ever will be. He just doesn't know anymore.

Too many questions. Who knew the end of the world would be plagued with so much uncertainty?

"Good morning," Stan whispers, and he's still smiling, but Roger can hear the question in his voice, the question that Stan began three days ago, another question that he has no answer for. Not even now, not even with dawn breaking through the window and the taste of gold still fresh on their lips.

So he forces himself to return Stan's smile, instead, and deflects, "Good morning to you, too." Then he tangles his fingers in Stan's hair, and fills the silence between them with kisses in lieu of words.

-

**A few months earlier**

"Hey..."

"Mmm?"

"Let's go somewhere next week. Just the two of us."

"..."

"Are you still awake?"

"...No."

"Rafa..."

"Go to sleep. You not talking sense right now."

"I'm serious. We can afford a few days, can't we?"

"No, we cannot."

"We'll be back before anyone knows we're gone."

"Toni will be asking."

"Let me deal with him. Or, actually, let Mirka. She'll talk him into it."

"No, you know is not a good idea..."

"Come on. It's not like we haven't done this before. Remember that time we went to Manacor?"

"I know. ...I know. Was stupid, no? We not thinking clearly, back then. We cannot do those things, Roger. Not anymore."

"What are you talking about? Why not?"

"Because... We can't, because I...because... We just cannot!"

"If this is about Mirka, I already told you―"

"I know! She know. She not care. A good friend, like Xisca, but is not about _her_. Is about you, Rogelio. You, and me. Us. _This_. We cannot be like this."

"What are you saying?"

"This has to stop. Is crazy, no? Like this. We cannot be always stuck in each others' lives. Things will happen."

"So we'll deal with those things. Together. We can do anything."

"No, Rogelio. We cannot..."

"...Rafa..."

"... _I_ cannot. I'm sorry."

-

**September 6th, 2008**

It's been four days, and, really, Roger doesn't want to think about it anymore. But it's a bit difficult to put the matter out of mind when the microphone is in his face, all cameras on him and the crowd clearly expecting an answer.

Andy Murray or Rafael Nadal?

Roger suddenly feels like a teenager again, unsure of what to say―knowing what he'd _like_ to say, of course, but suspecting that it's probably the wrong answer.

Murray or Rafa?

"Who do I prefer?" he echoes. He pauses for the slightest of moments, cracks a smile, "I prefer the trophy, that's what I prefer."

It buys him all of three seconds to think, between the crowd's laughter and the repetition of the question.

Murray or Rafa?

If he says he'd rather play Murray, the pundits will be all over him. Showing weakness, they'll say. Losing his edge. Unsportsmanlike, to choose the weaker player. Never mind that Murray is looking incredible at the moment, and likely to get better.

If he says Murray, the world will doubt him, and he doesn't know if he's ready to live with that. Doesn't know if he ever will be.

But if he chooses Rafa, it will be the truth―and still he doesn't know if he's ready to face that.

It's been four days since the round of sixteen, four days since Roger waited up in his hotel room, only to receive a text message from Stan, hours later, saying, _I'm leaving early tomorrow. Sorry._

Roger texted just one word back, almost without thinking. _Stay._

There was no reply, so he got out of bed at dawn, and caught Stan just as the latter was emerging from his own hotel room.

"Hey."

Stan smiled faintly, locking the door behind him, bags slung over one shoulder. "Hey."

They were standing at least a meter apart, and Stan made no move to get any closer.

"Did you get my text message?"

"Yeah."

"What's wrong?" Roger was pretty sure he'd meant to say, _I was hoping you'd stay for a bit longer_ , but his vocal chords didn't seem to agree.

Stan's smile slipped a fraction of a centimeter. "Nothing. Why?"

Roger opened his mouth to say, _You've barely spoken to me all week_ , then thought better of it. "Nothing," he said at last. "It's nothing. I'm sorry."

After a slightly awkward pause, Stan said, "Don't worry about me, all right? You just go and win this thing."

Roger had to crack a smile at that. "That'll kind of depend on my opponent."

"Who do you want to play?"

Roger shrugged. "I wanted to play against you," he said, going for lighthearted and missing by about a mile. The words tasted like lead on his tongue. He swallowed. "Well, I guess...as long as it's a good match, you know?"

Stan smiled, shaking his head slightly, and Roger got a sinking feeling in his stomach even before Stan said, "That's not true."

"Well, okay." Maybe there was still time to salvage this. "I kind of want to beat Murray. But that doesn't necessarily mean he's going to make it to the finals."

Stan's smile was crooked and didn't altogether reach his eyes. "Roger, you want to play Rafa. You know that."

Did he? _Does_ he?

Three days and two rounds later, Stan's words are still echoing in his mind, reverberating around the question, and now the camera is in his face and all the world is waiting:

Murray or Rafa?

He remembers the shadow in Stan's eyes, remembers all the lies that have already been said and unsaid, _I love you, only you, he's nothing to me._

And he wants to take this chance, suddenly, wants to take a breath and say, _Andy Murray_ , pundits be damned―but the words that stumble of his mouth, instead, are,

"I guess I've got to say...Rafa."

-

**A few months later**

"They're not the same person, you know."

"What?"

"Finish your coffee. I said, they're not the same person. Rafa is your rival. Stan is your partner― For heaven's sake, Roger. I meant _doubles_ partner."

"Sorry, sorry. My hand slipped on the cup... Um. Go on?"

"Who were you thinking of, just now?"

"Sorry?"

"Just now, before I started talking to you. You've been staring at the same newspaper article for half an hour. Were you thinking of Stan?"

"I wasn't thinking―"

"Obviously."

"Honest, Mirka. I was just...spacing out, I guess. I'm going to get more coffee."

"Roger."

"What?"

"You should call him."

"Rafa just sent me a text yesterday. He says his knee is giving him some problems, but it's nothing serious. He'll be playing next week."

"That's not what I meant. Go call Stan."

"He's busy training right now. Speaking of which―"

"Roger, you slept with the guy two months ago― Careful with that cup! Honestly! Did you think I wouldn't notice? Beijing, then New York, then Davis Cup ends and you two haven't spoken since. I know something's up."

"It's...not that simple..."

"I never said it was."

"Mirka..."

"Just because Rafa screwed you over doesn't give you the right to do the same thing to Stan."

"He... Look, maybe this is another mistake."

"You don't know that yet."

"But what if―"

"They're not the same person, Roger. The thing with Rafa was...unexpected, and maybe it was for the best. He's still your rival, and you two are going to be staging public drama for years. But Stan is different."

"I _know_ that."

"So do something about it."

"I can't! ...I just can't. Not right now."

-

**November 14th, 2008**

He knows that jet lag has absolutely nothing to do with why he's still awake, no matter how much he tries to delude himself, and that Mirka is going to being giving him some very pointed looks in the morning if he doesn't go to sleep soon.

Roger checks his cell phone again. Nothing.

He stuffs it back under the pillow, and notices that it's already past midnight. Maybe he should go to sleep. It doesn't seem likely he's going to get a response anytime soon―if he gets a response at all.

It kind of hurts to realize that, in the past few months, he can count the number of times he's talked with Stan on one hand―and none of those even deserve to be called real conversations. Not when compared to how they talked before. During the summer. Before...before everything.

Beijing is still fresh in his mind, every moment, every word.

So are all the silences after that.

He wonders, not for the first time, if he waited too long. If he took too much time thinking it over. If he overestimated Stan's seemingly endless patience with him.

The pillow buzzes suddenly, and Roger literally hears his own heartbeat stutter. He scrabbles for the phone, forcing his hands to remain steady as he clicks to the new text message.

 _Go to sleep, Roger_ , it reads, and then, finally― _finally_ ―what he's been waiting for since September: _I miss you, too._

Roger sits up and hits the speed dial number without even looking down at the keypad. He swings his feet over the side of the beg, bangs his ankle against the nightstand.

Stan picks up on the third ring.

"Stan―"

"Roger, why in _hell_ are you still awake?"

"―I was an idiot." The sentence fall from his lips before he can fully process its meaning. But he knows it was the right thing to say, because there's a sudden silence from the other end. This time, he fills it with words, "I'm sorry. I don't have a good excuse for what happened, what I did, other than I was overwhelmed by everything and a bit confused, you know?"

"...Go to sleep, Roger. You're not making any sense."

"No. I want to talk to you. I'm not going to sleep until we get this straight, once and for all."

"There's nothing to talk about. You have a match tomorrow―"

" _I don't care_." He tries not to raise his voice, and almost succeeds. "Remember what you said, in Beijing?"

The faint static in his ear is so loud that, for a moment, Roger wonders if the connection died. Then he realizes that he can hear Stan breathing, just barely.

"Stan, do you remember? It was right after I played Blake. Before―"

"I remember," Stan says, his words no more than a whisper. "Of course I remember."

Roger swallows. "I've been thinking about that―"

Stan sighs loudly into the receiver, and it reaches Roger's ear as a burst of static. "Look, can we just... Just forget it, okay?" Stan's voice sounds strained. "It doesn't have to mean anything. I'm sorry I ever brought it up."

A month ago, Roger might have backed off there and then. Not anymore.

"I _want_ it to mean something," he says, gripping the cell phone. The room is dark, but the curtains are imperfectly drawn and a sliver of light, the nighttime city, shines through the folds. He fixes his eyes on it, waiting for Stan's reply.

"Do you really?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because..." Roger's heart feels like its trying to bulldoze its way out of his ribcage. He swallows. "Because...I love you, too."

He's expecting another long silence, but instead he hears, "Don't say that."

His hands suddenly feel like ice. "What?"

"You still care about him. I know, all right? So don't say that to me―"

"Stan―"

"Just forget about it―"

" _No_. Stan, listen to me. It's nearly one in the morning, and I'm talking to _you_ , all right? You, not him. Yes, I care about him―and I'll probably always care about him―but I care about you more. Because _I love you._ " His voice cracks, despite his best efforts. "I love you, Stan. Won't you believe me?"

Time is suspended for what seems an eternity, until Roger realizes that the soft, crackling sound he hears is Stan. Crying.

"This is not going to work, Rogi," Stan says, his voice so choked that the words are barely intelligible. "We can't... It'll never work."

"We'll make it work." Roger squeezes his eyes shut, forces his voice to remain steady. "You asked me what I'd say if you told me you loved me, and this is my answer. I love you. I love you, and I won't take no for an answer. Please, Stan..."

He leans against the wooden headboard, eyes still closed, phone held tightly to his ear. It's past midnight, he's in a hotel room halfway around the world from where he really wants to be, and all he can hear is the beat of a breaking heart―but for the first time in a long time, he thinks that everything might turn out all right after all.

Because the world has finally stopped falling, and now he's floating on the sound of Stan's voice, and Stan is saying, over and over,

"I love you. I love you I love you I love you."


End file.
